Stormbound
by RashelleAndJag
Summary: Harry and Draco return for their fifth year, perhaps finally ready to put the past behind them. Or perhaps not.
1. Warnings

            Okay, this is not a happy little fluffy fic, although I'm hoping for a happy ending. It contains mentions of cutting and abuse. This fic contains spoilers for Harry Potter, (it's a fanfiction, duh) and strong language (translation: people swear) and violence, as well as SLASH!!! This is a slash fanfic!  

            Jag -  *shakes her head* _Don't look at me. I'm the one who writes depressing stories about life and people in general. I had absolutely nothing to do with this. I was remotely traumatized just reading it._

Rashelle – **Well, it wanted to be written. And while this fiction does contain boy/boy romance and love, this fic DOES NOT contain graphic sex of any kind. It more like Will & Grace, but with actual smoochies. So I'll rate it R even though I think I've seen worse PG-13 movies.  **

            If this is not your cup of tea, or if you are offended by the idea of two young persons of the same sex involved in a caring relationship, well, move on then, click the little button pointing to the left and read no further. 

            If you are not scared away, and you want to keep on reading. . . Well, go on, nothing's stopping you.  

            As an aside note, it has been said that Harry/Draco slash is dead. And you know what, I agree. Everybody's written at least one, maybe two, some people have written masterpieces. However, my muse listens to no one, she's a bit of a historian, really coming up with ideas years after everyone else has given up on a particular fandom/ pairing. 

            Anyway, on with the fic, à à à


	2. Chapter One

            When Harry woke up that morning he couldn't keep a smile from blooming on his face. Aunt Petunia was beating on the door with what sounded like a wooden object, maybe a mop. . . And he was still smiling. It was raining outside, but Harry fancied he could see a golden splash of sunlight spilling into the room.  

Today, he would be escaping from the Dursley's tender care once again. The threat of mass murderer Sirius Black had kept them mostly in line for a while now. But it was starting to fade. . . Dudley couldn't keep himself on the gold star list forever, Harry had known that. It started with nothing really, a spiteful pinch when no one was looking. 

             And it quickly became an all out war. Dudley did nothing in front of Vernon and Petunia. He left no blatant marks. He never even broke Harry's spectacles again. And if Harry dared to complain, well then, Harry was being too rough on the boy. Obviously, no Sirius Black was going to swoop down on the house and rain curses and pain just because sweet little Dudleykins defended himself, right? Sirius may be a crazy homicidal maniac (or so they thought) but he was hardly going to risk a lifetime in prison for a few little bruises, right? 

            Harry could hardly walk down the ugly khaki hallway without flinching, expecting that he would be tripped, or at the very least, jabbed in the ribs. He even had accidentally broken one of Aunt Petunia's vases. It had been new, very expensive, and uglier than the cat Dudley played barbershop with. The screaming had gone on for days. . .  

            It didn't take very long for Uncle Vernon to start a war of his own. There was nothing wrong with asking Harry to help out with a few measly chores right? A little labour would make the boy strong. _He had always been a little on the puny and frail side, but that was probably just the way they pampered him, right?_

            And the diet was back on, in full force. Harry only got half of whatever it was Dudley was eating. Half and no more, after all, Harry was a much smaller boy than Dudley. Harry was fairly certain that Dudley was cheating somehow – how could anyone be on a diet for over a year and **gain** weight? Dudley was now roughly the size and poundage of a young elephant. Or so Harry thought. 

            But today. . . He didn't have to worry about anything. 

            Today, Hermione's parents would be picking him up and driving him to Diagon alley, where they could pick up their school supplies. Then Harry was invited to stay with the Grangers so they could leave early to catch the train at 9 and ¾. 

            And that was a thought that could make even Malfoy look good.  

            "I sure hope that you think you're going to get away without doing any work, around here, boy." Uncle Vernon started, as Harry slid into his place at the breakfast table. "I work hard, day and night to keep you in the lap of luxury, you have no complaints to speak of, and the very least you could do would be to show a little respect and maybe some honesty." He looked for a response. 

            Harry didn't say anything. He knew better than to start something on the very last day. And his Uncle knew it. 

            "Although, given your . . ." _freakhood/weirdness/abnormality _"unnaturalness, I suppose it's only to be expected." Vernon continued gleefully. "I will expect you to do something about the unseemly state of the floors in this house before you go. Goodness knows that me and your Aunt don't walk across them with grimy little feet. And the bathrooms. . . And Dudley's room. He is gracious enough to share with you; you can be gracious enough to help him clean things up." 

            Harry prevented himself from snorting. Dudley and sharing were kind of like coconuts and Quidditch – you never heard them mentioned in the same sentence. "What about packing?" Harry asked hopefully. Maybe they would give him an hour off to collect his worthless junk / perversions that took up so much space, and cluttered the household.

            "Its already on the porch." Uncle Vernon smiled. _Can't you see what nice people we are? _

            It **was** already on the porch. Most of the stuff from Hogwarts had never even been unpacked, just locked in the cupboard under the stairs. And his clothes were tossed in a black garbage bag beside his trunk. 

~,~'~,~'~{@

Draco Malfoy was being quiet. Alone, small in the large room, lost among the shelves and books and statues of exquisite taste. Today, he had run out of excuses. There was no way left for him to justify himself. He could not plead that others had unfair advantages, that people were too stupid, or . . . At this point nothing he did or said mattered. He couldn't even blame it on Harry Potter. His father was going to beat him anyway. 

His mother had retreated into her chambers. She was going to stay there the rest of the day. Because if she didn't see it, then it didn't happen. She had her own pools and lakes of guilt and shame. She didn't need to swim in his. His dishonour was his own to bear. And truthfully, Draco preferred in that way. 

He had headed down to the library early that day, feeling a change in the tide that ebbed and flowed within the mansion. The very atmosphere was charged. The house elves walked carefully, as though wading through dark waters, smelling the scent of lightning in the air. 

The library was overpowering. Clean, upright bookshelves dividing the room, making it into a maze of knowledge. He was not allowed to touch any of the darker books – he was too stupid, too slow witted, too. . . And curiosity had only bested him once. Once was enough.

His father had found him there, curled in a red silk and satin chair, tucked in the corner under a reading-globe. Between the History and Charm sections. The chair was warm but he felt so cold. 

"I'm very pleased to see that you are at least making an effort with your schoolwork, Draco." His father's form was silvered in the darkness; his blond hair reflected the dim light. "It's really too bad that you are such an abysmal failure. Even a Mudblood can best you."

Draco didn't say a word, choking, gasping, behind a carefully cultivated mask of indifference. 

"It's a sorry state that the long line of the Malfoy is reduced to this, shivering pile of. . . I should have kept a better eye on your mother, I suppose, this is my fault. Your mother and I should have never married. It was obvious even back then, she was little better than an expensive whore."

Draco blinked twice. 

"This is exactly why proper parentage and bloodlines are so important. Because without them, we end up with morons and idiots like you. Everything is in the blood, Draco. Blood tells. And yours is tainted. I know more intelligent pond scum." 

Only two more days until school began, Malfoy thought. And there's a thought that can make even Potter look good. 

Draco didn't look towards his father or mother as he graciously said his good-byes. There was surprising sincerity there. He could almost hear the little boy that lived within him, _maybe when I'm finished school, things will be better. _Draco wanted to crush that little boy, splatter his blood and break his bones. There were four bruises burning him underneath his robes – fingerprints on his arm. Reminders. The others had been healed, with a wand that left welts to fade under the moonlight. 

He passed through the cars of the train, looking for Crabbe and Goyle. They were a sanctuary of sorts. They were his faith. Far too dimwitted to betray him, strong enough to protect him. _No, they're not. _**Yes, they are.** If they couldn't, then no one could. 

Wrong car. Potter and his friends were there, laughing and joking, filling the car with their warmth, and the depth of their affection startled him. It was silent as they realized who had walked in. At least silence he could understand. "Sorry, just passing through. No intention of sitting to chit with you losers. Hell, you couldn't even pay me to stay long enough to look at you."

            Before he could say another word, he continued through the car. 

            The group bristled, and sat on the edge of their seats, and could only stare at the empty spot Malfoy had occupied. 

            "That was weird." Harry said. 

            "That was Malfoy." Ron snorted. "Did you expect him to act like a human being?"         


	3. Chapter Two

~,~'~,~'~{@

            The sorting ceremony was short and sweet. Ten new Gryffindors and a lot of chatting and talking, a hilarious atmosphere as everyone tried to catch up with everything everyone else had been doing, in the course of one supper. 

            Harry reached for the potatoes and was more than a little surprised when the bowl grew legs and walked away. In fact, all the dishes were walking away. And they now had little pink hands. And was that the Macarena? A juice jug got overly enthusiastic and splashed Seamus Finnegan, purple grape juice dripping down his face and into the collar of his shirt. Giggles filled the air, and everyone looked over to the end of the table where the new Gryffindors sat. Twin girls, with identical chestnut brown hair and dancing brown eyes fell off the bench and rolled around, laughing. 

            "Oh, no!" Hermione exclaimed, her face the very picture of horror. "Georgina and Frederica!"

            Everyone cracked up.   

            Harry was back where he belonged. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping and he was back where he belonged. He and Ron were engaged in a furious battle of Wizard's chess in the common room, and Harry had no hope of winning. Even the chess pieces were cursing his name as they pelted out useless advice. 

 Harry wondered briefly if Ron would ever realize the extent of Harry's feeling for him. Ron was the first friend Harry had ever made, the only person who stuck by in through thick and thin. Granted he was a red-head, hot tempered, stubborn as a mule but those flaws only made him more real. Ron was no longer a friend. He was family, a brother, and the only one Harry would ever have. 

And that made it particularly difficult to admit a painful truth. Ron just kept pestering him about Cho, teasing him about Ginny. And Harry was genuinely very fond of them. But . . . They just didn't make him . . . gasp aloud in need and desire.

It was even worse when Ron persisted in pointing out every pretty little witch that walked by with a wiggle and a wink. Some of them were drop dead gorgeous and Ron was insistent that Harry could have any of them he wanted. They didn't disprove him, watched him from across the room, with blushes or winks, and each dared him to come over and talk to _her. _And Harry just wanted them all to go away. 

Yeah, Harry could just see that conversation. You see Ron, when I dream, I see only guys. . . First, there would be the inevitable disgust, then the disbelief that would well up in his eyes, like a river of judgement. Then the most painful part of all. Ron would start reflect on their friendship. 

And that was the absolute last thing Harry wanted. Ron was family. Family, with the **"Eeeww!**** Off-limits!" sign securely fastened to his forehead. Harry cared about Ron more deeply than any other person (Hermione coming a very close second) but he didn't think about Ron in that way. He didn't think of anyone that way. His fantasies were non-distinct and fading things that left him breathless. And wanting. **

"Ummmm, your move, Harry." Ron was looking at him with a 'where in the nine dimensions of Parco, were you?' look plastered on his face. "Is something wrong?" 

"I've pretty much lost this game, haven't I?" Harry looked at the board. Any move his King that made Ron would quickly turn into a checkmate. 

"I did say check –" Ron said confusedly. 

"Then let's sneak down into the kitchen and steal some chocolate pie before bed."

~,~'~,~'~{@

            Draco was tired but he couldn't sleep. He had cast a minor healing charm on his arm but the marks were still there, burning into his bones. Crabbe and Goyle slumbered noisily in the beds next to his own. He rather liked it. If he could hear them snoring, he knew they were sleeping and not up to something. Not standing over his bed, waiting for him to roll over so they could put a knife in his back.

            Draco pulled his knife out from underneath his pillow. It was short and gleaming silver even in the pale light. Green serpent's eyes stared at him from the handle. A present from his father. His fifth birthday present to be precise. What kind of man gives his five year old son a knife? 

            The kind of man who would never imagine what Draco did with it, alone here in the dark. The knife gouged deep and blood, red-blackish blood, in the darkness dripped down onto the sheets, covering them in a luminous fluid (like moonlit rain drops on a frozen night) before they were absorbed. 

            The blood flowed, releasing the heat as it trickled down his arm, leaving a pathway of blessed relief and reprieve. Draco stared in silent contemplation for a few moments. Then he took out his wand, and gently, gently, soothed the pain away. 

            Draco walked into his charms class, already in a foul mood. He hated charms. He was excellent at Potions, and Defence against the Dark Arts, and had a knack for Transfigurations. He did decently in herbology, and not as well in Arithmancy. And Charms was his worst subject. 

            Worse yet, the Mudblood, Hermione was there. She beat him in everything, across the board. And he would have to listen to her point out the correct pronunciation, and correct the Gryffindors wand movements while Professor Flitwick smiled. If his blood had to be so tainted, couldn't he have had a little like hers? Her blood ran with a spark, a glimmer of talent and personality. She didn't need the bloodlines – she was a past, present and future all of her own. 

            He muttered snarkishly to Goyle and Crabbe and they laughed in their normal, dense, too loud, the-joke-wasn't-really-that-funny-way. He caught a glance of Harry from across the room. 

Damn him, why does he always have to look so good? His ruffled hair looked like he had come straight from his bed, even though it was already nearly noon. Worse, he looked happy, innocent, and pleased with whatever Ron had whispered in ear. It wasn't bloody fair, he cursed. Harry was a boy already touched, no, marked by darkness, and he sat there, oblivious to the shadows. 

In a reaffirmation of his love of all things evil, and his hatred for all things Potter, Draco reached under his desk and discreetly transfigured Neville Longbottom's Standard Book of Spells into a giant spider. 


	4. Author's Notes and Responses to Reviewer...

            A big thanks goes out to all those who made it this far. Thank you for taking the time.

Okay, there's definitely going to be more, my muse hasn't deserted me yet. But I am looking for reviews. This story is something I have stopped and started so many times, I no longer remember why I started it in the first place. When it got to be fairly long (8 pages or so) I realized that this wasn't a drabble and it wasn't going to just go away.  For lack of anything better to do, (Well, that's not true, I had a lot of other projects to finish, but somehow was absolutely unable to work on any of them) I decided to fix it up enough to post.  

            So feel free to constructively criticize – I'm always looking for a way to improve something. I promise that I'm desperate and eager-to-please enough to respond to most reviews, and I take anonymous ones, too! 

            Rashelle Waterburn Seabrooks 

            Okay, reviewers. Yay. Sorry I'm a little late responding. My muse ran away, and I wondered if she was ever coming back. . . 

            For those wondering where the fic was, well, I download my warnings and the first chapter simultaneously, but unfortunately, fanfiction.net doesn't always load them simultaneously, sorry. 

            Thank you to beautifulelf, Cori, KisaGeneKimodori, and Hedwig. I truly appreciate your support.

            And a great big thank you to Liz, who said, 

            _Hey! Thanx for taking anonymous reviews. *wink* I hope you decide to continue with this story because I hoping it will grow to be one of those "masterpieces" you mentioned in your intro. And Harry/Draco slash dead? Oh My...if it was I'm not sure I could go on living! And I'm hoping *this* fic isn't going to die anytime soon. I liked the explanation of how things are progressing towards abuse and mistreatment in the Dursley household. The Malfloy's are written well but I feel the need to mention that it's very traditional and predictable Malfoy mistreatment, but I liked the wording used regarding the abuse. It made it more unique. I can't wait for you to get even more into Draco's head, and, OF COURSE, I can't wait for the slashy-goodness to start up after all the *issues* the poor boys have are resolved. I'm waiting anxiously for more!_

            Yes, I realize that I made the Malfoys very predictable and traditional. Truthfully, I couldn't help it. I never saw the Malfoys as particularly original. They seem to perpetrate an evil that is old as time, and they do it because they themselves were victims and because they feel the need to be superior and this somehow does it for them. I am not, however, sure that my story accurately conveyed this. Thank you very much.  


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